"Say! I shipped this package to myself. Here's the receipt," blustered
Mr. Bulson. "I guess I can withdraw it from your care if I like."
"Guess again, mister," returned the expressman. "You've got three guesses, anyway."
The fat man was so assertive and over-bearing that it amused the chums from Tillbury to hear him thus flouted.
"I guess you don't know who I am?" cried the choleric fat man.
"You say your name is Bullhead—"
"Bulson!" roared the other. "Ravell Bulson. I own that milk."
"So it is condensed milk in that box, Mr. Bulson?" here interposed Mr.
Carter, the conductor.
"Yes, it is," said Bulson, shortly. "I had business up near the Bancroft Creamery, and I stepped in there and bought a case of milk in glass, and shipped it home. I saw it being put aboard the express car of the other train and I had an idea it would be transferred at the Junction to this train. And here it is, and I want it."
"You're a public spirited citizen, Mr. Bulson," the conductor said suavely. "I expect you want to get this milk to divide among your fellow passengers? Especially among the children on the train?"
"What's that?" exclaimed Bulson, his eyes fairly bulging out with surprise.